his face with an embroidered handkerchief.
The Celebrity looked at the mattress, then at me, and lastly at Mr. Cooke. His face was a study:
"And--And you think I am going to get in there?" he said, his voice shaking.
My client fell back a step.
"Why not?" he demanded. "It's about your size, comfortable, and all the air you want" (here Mr. Cooke stuck his finger through the bit hole). "Damn me, if I were in your fix, I wouldn't stop at a kennel."
"Then you're cursed badly mistaken," said the Celebrity, going back to his corner; "I'm tired of being made an ass of for you and your party."
"An ass!" exclaimed my client, in proper indignation.
"Yes, an ass," said the Celebrity. And he resumed his book.
It would seem that a student of human nature, such as every successful writer should be, might by this time have arrived at some conception of my client's character, simple as it was, and have learned to overlook the slight peculiarity in his mode of expressing himself. But here the Celebrity fell short, if my client's emotions were not pitched in the same key as those of other people, who shall say that his heart was not as large or his sympathies as wide as many another philanthropist?
But Mr. Cooke was an optimist, and as such disposed to look at the best side of his friends and ignore the worst; if, indeed, he perceived their faults at all. It was plain to me, even now, that he did not comprehend the Celebrity's attitude. That his guest should reject the one hope of escape left him was, according to Mr. Cooke, only to be accounted for by a loss of mental balance. Nevertheless, his disappointment was keen. He let down the door and slowly led the way out of the cabin. The whistle sounded shrilly in our ears.
Mr. Cooke sat down and drew a wallet from his pocket. He began to count the bills, and, as if by common consent, the Four followed suit. It was a task which occupied some minutes, and when completed my client produced a morocco note-book and a pencil. He glanced interrogatively at the man nearest him.
"Three hundred and fifty."
Mr. Cooke put it down. It was entirely a matter of course. What else was there to be done? And when he had gone the round of his followers he turned to Farrar and me.
"How much are you fellows equal to?" he asked.
I believe he did it because he felt we should resent being left out: and so we should have. Mr. Cooke's instincts were delicate.
We told him. Then he paused, his pencil in the air, and his eyes doubtfully fixed on the senator. For all this time Mr. Trevor had been fidgeting in his seat; but now he opened his long coat, button by button, and thrust his hand inside the flap. Oh, Falstaff!
"Father, father!" exclaimed Miss Trevor. But her tongue was in her cheek.
I have heard it stated that if a thoroughly righteous man were cast away with ninety and nine ruffians, each of the ruffians would gain one-one-hundredth in virtue, whilst the righteous man would sink to their new level. I am not able to say how much better Mr. Cooke's party was for Mr. Trevor's company, but the senator seemed to realize that something serious had happened to him, for his voice was not altogether steady as he pronounced the amount of his contribution.
"Trevor," cried Mr. Cooke, with great fervor, "I take it all back. You're a true, public-spirited old sport."
But the senator had not yet reached that extreme of degradation where it is pleasurable to be congratulated on wickedness.
My client added up the figures and rubbed his hands. I regret to say that the aggregate would have bought up three small police organizations, body and soul.
"Pull up, Farrar, old man," he shouted.
Farrar released the wheel and threw the Maria into the wind. With the sail cracking and the big boom dodging over our heads, we watched the tug as she drew nearer and nearer, until we could hear the loud beating of her engines. On one side some men were making ready to lower a boat, and then a conspicuous figure in blue stood out by the davits. Then came the faint tinkle of a bell, and the H Sinclair, of Far Harbor, glided up and thrashed the water scarce a biscuit-throw away.
"Hello, there!" the man in uniform called out. It was Captain McCann, chief of the Far Harbor police.
Mr. Cooke waved his cigar politely.
"Is that Mr. Cooke's yacht, the Maria?
"The same," said Mr. Cooke.
"I'm fearing I'll have to come aboard you, Mr. Cooke."
"All right, old man, glad to have you," said my client.
This brought a smile to McCann's face as he got into his boat. We were all standing in the cockpit, save the Celebrity, who was just inside of the cabin door. I had time to note that he was pale, and no more: I must have been pale myself. A few strokes brought the chief to the Maria's stern.
"It's not me that likes to interfere with a gent's pleasure party, but business is business," said he, as he climbed aboard.
My client's hospitality was oriental.
"Make yourself at home, old man," he said, a box of his largest and blackest cigars in his hand. And these he advanced towards McCann before the knot was tied in the painter.
Then a wave of self-reproach swept over me. Was it possible that I, like Mr. Trevor, had been deprived of all the morals I had ever possessed? Could it be that the district attorney was looking calmly on while Mr. Cooke wilfully corrupted the Far Harbor chief-of-police? As agonizing a minute as I ever had in my life was that which it took McCann to survey those cigars. His broad features became broader still, as a huge, red hand was reached out. I saw it close lingeringly over the box, and then Mr. Cooke had struck a match. The chief stepped over the washboard onto the handsome turkey-red cushions on the seats, and thus he came face to face with me.
"Holy fathers!" he exclaimed. "Is it you who are here, Mr. Crocker?" And he pulled off his cap.
"No other, McCann," said I, with what I believe was a most pitiful attempt at braggadocio.
McCann began to puff at his cigar. Clouds of smoke came out of his face and floated down the wind. He was so visibly embarrassed that I gained a little courage.
"And what brings you here?" I demanded.
He scrutinized me in perplexity.
"I think you're guessing, sir."
"Never a guess, McCann. You'll have to explain yourself."
McCann had once had a wholesome respect for me. But it looked now as if the bottom was dropping out of it.
"Sure, Mr. Crocker," he said, "what would you be doing in such company as I'm hunting for? Can it be that ye're helping to lift a criminal over the border?"
"McCann," I asked sternly, "what have you had on the tug?"
Force of habit proved too much for the man. He went back to the apologetic.
"Never a drop, Mr. Crocker. Upon me soul!"
This reminded Mr. Cooke of something (be it recorded) that he had for once forgotten. He lifted up the top of the refrigerator. The chief's eye followed him. But I was not going to permit this.
"Now, McCann," I commenced again, "if you will state your business